


a little bit of hope

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Jackson Has Issues, Jackson as a Kid, M/M, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson ran away when he was eleven years old, and a teenage boy helped him find a way back home. Years later, when he needs a job in college, he finds that boy all grown up, and he wonders if Derek will ever recognize him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little bit of hope

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for prompt #108 (Wealth) at fullmoon_ficlet. I saw [this](http://www.givesmehope.com/Random+Acts+Of+Kindness/I-was-only-11-years-old-when-I-ran-away/67597?m) on Gives Me Hope and I wanted to write a fic about it, then the prompt came up and I thought about our little rich boy, Jackson, and then this story spilled out. This rushes the story more than I wanted to, but unfortunately, time was a constraint. As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

Jackson is eleven years old when he raids his father’s wallet and takes out one crisp one hundred dollar bill. There’s more money there, but all he needs is cab fare and _honestly_ those people work for next to nothing, so how much could it cost? He’s planning on having the driver take him all the way to Los Angeles, but he starts out by calling the company and asking for a car to take him to San Francisco. 

He is absolutely positive that it won’t be hard to change the plan once he’s in the car.

Everything starts out perfectly. He climbs in and asks to go to San Francisco, and and when the driver is dubious, Jackson puts on his haughtiest Whittemore accent and says, “Of _course_ I can pay. Do you _know_ who my father is?”

The cabbie looks at the house, looks back at Jackson, and shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

Jackson busies himself playing with his DS at first—he’s not stupid enough to bring his cell phone, because everyone _knows_ that those things can be used to track you down, like hunting an animal with a tracer in its ear. And Jackson wouldn’t put it past the Whittemores to put some kind of GPS thing in it. Danny says it can be done, and Danny knows _everything_ about technology. And the Whittemores—Jackson can’t call them his parents, not anymore, not now that he knows the _truth_ —they pretend to care and if they lost him it’d probably look bad.

They should’ve told him the truth a long time ago. Then he wouldn’t be doing this. It’s their own fault if they look bad now.

The thing is, there’s only so much Pokemon he can handle at one time, and after an hour he starts to fidget and look around. After all, this is an adventure. He should probably pay attention, remember the little things that started him out on his eventual road to fame.

That’s when he notices the meter and the little set of numbers clicking up rapidly and already over 100.

That can’t possibly be… 

“Hey.” He knocks on the plexiglass that separates him from the guy in the front. “How long until we get to San Francisco?”

“Another hour maybe and another hundred bucks.” The guy taps the meter, and Jackson does his best not to choke. “It’s your dime, little guy.”

He falls back on the seat and opens his wallet, looking in at the lonely bill. It seems like a lot of money to his brain, even though he knows his father probably won’t miss it. Hell, he might blow his nose with it, for all it’s worth to him. But right now, it’s all Jackson has. He bangs on the plexiglass again, demanding, “Stop the cab!”

The guy pulls over on the side of the road, and Jackson tries not to think how _dark_ this town is. It’s not actually night, but the place is dingy and broken down, and the people all look like they probably could crawl into a cardboard box and die that night. He swallows hard and looks at the cabbie, pushing the hundred dollar bill through the gap. “I’m getting out here.”

The guy snorts. “This isn’t San Francisco.”

“I don’t care!” Jackson snaps, his voice too loud and it gets him attention from the people walking by. _Remember to act tough, remember that you’re better_. He sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly. “I don’t care,” he says more slowly, mimicking his father’s expression that says _and don’t ask me again_. “I’m getting out here, and there’s your money, so it doesn’t matter now, does it? Just go on back to Beacon Hills.”

He goes to open the door, and the guy calls out, “Kid.”

He raises one eyebrow, manage to get the door slightly open and wedge one foot through. He is _leaving_.

“Look.” The guy turns around, his arm up as he leans on the seat. “You’re running away.”

Jackson doesn’t want to know how he _knows_ that, all he wants to do is get away before someone tells his parents where he is. “No I’m not,” he spits out. “I’m traveling. On my own. To go see my… my real father and mother. Who are in LA and are famous movie stars and they couldn’t keep me because of the paparazzi, but now I’m old enough and they’re going to put me in their next film and I’ll be famous. You’ll see my face on _billboards_.”

“Stay in the car, kid, and I’ll take you back to Beacon Hills for free.”

“No.” Jackson yanks the door open and falls out, slamming it behind himself. He hears the other door open, but he’s off and running before the guy can follow him, and while he’s _eleven_ , he’s still small, hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet which is maddening in the sixth grade. It works to his advantage now, lets him disappear among the people, running until his lungs want to give out and he leans against a building gasping for air.

It hits him then, what he’s done.

He’s somewhere unknown, with no money, and very little clothing. He has no idea what to do, or where to go, or how to get there.

He’s _alone_.

He sucks in a breath, tries to make himself stop shaking. It doesn’t matter, because he’s Jackson fucking Whittemore, and he’s going to Hollywood to become a star. Fuck his parents, fuck money. None of it matters. 

Not anymore.

#

A day later, Jackson has learned three things: he’s _really_ hungry, he knows what town he’s in, and he has no idea what to do.

He manages to find his way to the bus stop, because he could go _somewhere_ from there, except he can’t afford a ticket to get to LA. He’d thought it was going to be so _easy_. Just start going, and something will turn up. It always does, right?

But he’s not that lucky.

He tries to bargain with the ticket seller, pleading to have someone make him a small loan. He spins a sob story about being left behind by his family, yells that _of course_ he’s not homeless, can’t anyone _see_ the designer clothing he’s wearing? It doesn’t work. No one wants to help him get to Los Angeles.

He spends hours trying to work the place, begging for coins and a few bills. He manages to get enough that he can buy a soda and a dried-out hamburger from the small cafe in the station, and he gobbles them down, licking the grease from his fingers while sucking the life out of each piece of ice left when his soda is gone.

It hits him then, as another bus pulls in and disgorges a riot of passengers, that this is his life now. He _is_ homeless. He’s stuck here in this stupid town and he’s _never_ going to get anywhere.

He’s going to die on the streets and won’t his parents be so sorry that they let him go.

The _Whittemores_ , not his _parents_. His real parents gave him up a long time ago and that hurts more than he ever imagined.

The tears come with a gulp, gushing out until he has to pull his legs up, pillow his head on his knees to hide himself from the people walking by. He tries to curl in on himself, make himself smaller so no one notices. So no one sees his shame.

“Hey.”

The disgusting attached plastic seats move with the weight of someone sitting next to him. He can feel body heat, but there’s no touch. Jackson makes a noise of irritation, but the person doesn’t go away.

“Are you all right?”

The voice is a low and gentle tenor, not as deep as some adults but definitely not just a kid. Jackson turns his head to the side, blinks to see a worried face looking back at him. Bright green eyes that warm to brown around the edges, and a face that shows a bit of a scruff. A boy who hovers on the edge between childhood and adulthood, Jackson thinks. Maybe not as hard to trust as someone older.

Jackson shrugs one shoulder. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Well, you look like you’re not all right.” The guy stops looking at him and Jackson likes that, likes the way he just sits back in his own chair with his arms crossed. “I have a lot of siblings—younger and older—and we’d all be angry at anyone who walked by someone crying his heart out and didn’t do anything.”

“It’s not any of your business,” Jackson sneers, trying to dash the tears away.

“I know, but I’m offering help.” The guy glances back at him, holds out a hand. “I’m Derek.”

_Don’t ever tell a stranger your name_.

Jackson purses his lips thinly at the memory of his mother’s voice. “Okay. So?”

Derek digs into the bag he has over his shoulder and pulls out a tissue. “Fine, you don’t need a name. I’ll just call you _kid_. Here, clean off your face.”

Jackson rubs at his eyes and cheeks, drying the tears and blowing his nose. He crumples the tissue in his hand after he’s done, and just looks at Derek, tries to figure him out. He doesn’t look _homeless_ , but he doesn’t look like he’s rolling in money, either. “What are you doing here?” Jackson asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Visiting my sister at school. She’ll pick me up soon.” Derek’s eyes shift, glancing at the door as if he’s wondering why she’s late. “I might go here next year. It depends on if I get a scholarship or find a job.”

“Your parents won’t pay for college?” That thought seems alien. Jackson knows that if he’d stayed _home_ , the Whittemores would buy him anything he wanted, including a college education, and more after that if he asked.

Thinking about home makes him sniffle again, and Derek puts one careful hand on his shoulder.

“Did you run away?”

Jackson scowls. “Of course not,” he says, and Derek snorts.

“Liar.”

Jackson huffs. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now. And I need to get to LA and Hollywood so I can be a star.”

“Maybe you should go home and try again when you’re a little older,” Derek suggests gently. 

Jackson doesn’t want to go home. He really, _really_ doesn’t. “They aren’t my parents,” he mutters. “They _said_ they were and they _said_ they loved me, but they _bought_ me like I’m some kind of thing that you hang on the walls. And my parents—my _real_ parents—they just gave me away because someone could pay them and that isn’t right, is it? I mean, would _you_ sell your baby if you had one?”

Derek’s cheeks are slightly pink. “I’m never going to have a baby, but I wouldn’t sell one if I did,” he admits. “It sounds like your adoptive parents are cool, though, if they wanted you that bad.”

Jackson hadn’t thought of it like that. He’d thought about how his parents had just given him up so they could get more money, not about how the Whittemores wanted him so badly that they’d pay anything just to be able to bring him home. It strikes into his gut and it twists inside of him, and suddenly he’s crying again, body shaking from the effort.

Derek draws him in close and holds him carefully. “Hey…” Derek whispers.

“I want to go home.” Jackson doesn’t mean to say it, but as soon as the words are out, it’s true. “I want to go home and I don’t know _how_.”

“I can help.” Derek lets go long enough to drag his bag onto his lap and dig through it again, pulling out crumpled bills. He flattens them carefully, organizing them by type, and when he’s finally done there’s a hundred dollars sitting there in an untidy pile. He folds the bills together and puts them in Jackson’s hand, folding his fingers around them. “Go buy a bus ticket and go home. Everything’s going to be okay. Your folks are just going to be so glad that you’re back that they won’t care that you left.”

Jackson burrows in close to Derek again, waiting for the moment that his arms go around him and he holds on tight, letting Jackson cry. “Thank you,” Jackson whispers. “Thank you.”

#

He’s grounded for six months when he gets home, but when he says _I love you_ and means it three weeks later, the punishment ends. Jackson manages to find his feet in his house again, and become a family with his parents. It gets him through most of high school, until time for college comes along.

#

“What are you going to do about it, run away?” Danny pokes at Jackson’s fries, stealing one when Jackson doesn’t argue. They’re only _fries_. Jackson could buy the whole fucking diner if he wanted to.

He just can’t buy a college education apparently.

“I think we milked the _run away_ joke years ago,” Jackson says dryly. “And no, I’m not doing anything that makes me _more_ poor in college. He said he’ll pay tuition and room and board, and most of the regular expenses. But if I want spending money—and that includes insurance on the Porsche and gas—I have to get a job.”

It shouldn’t be a big deal, but at the same time, it _is_. Jackson’s used to having access to any amount of money he wants. Hell, he keeps a hundred dollar bill in his wallet just in case something comes up. _Just in case_. And now his dad says he gets _nothing_ that isn’t absolutely necessary as soon as he leaves for school.

It’s cruel, that’s what it is. Inhuman.

And yet, his dad won’t budge.

Jackson bats Danny’s hand away before he loses any more fries. “Cut it out, asshole,” he mutters. He eats for a while, but Danny’s just watching him, waiting for the rant, and Jackson can’t hold out that long anyway. “So I’ve been looking at my options for jobs on campus and near campus. They have an official list of places that hire freshman that aren’t on financial aid.” Because there is no way in hell the school would ever give him money, and Jackson doesn’t blame them. But the problem is, there are a lot of jobs that aren’t options for him. And he has to find _something_.

“So, what are you thinking of doing?” Danny signals the waitress to bring over some more coffee, but Jackson waves her away after she fills Danny’s cup. This waitress happens to b a girl he dated for five minutes in his freshman year before he hooked up with Lydia, and she’s been trying to get back together with him for the last six months since Lydia dumped him on his ass. He really doesn’t need her hovering around right now.

Jackson’s a jerk, but he doesn’t feel like saying _you’re barking up the wrong tree_. It’s bad enough that he was with Lydia more than three years before he got himself completely figured out. 

“My choices seem to be coffee shops, diners, and the library.” Jackson snorts because really, why would he want to work with books? “I hate working with food, but maybe coffee wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Coffee shops open at six in the morning,” Danny points out. “You’d probably have to be there even earlier.”

Which is… no, Jackson’s not going to do that.

“You realize that in the end, you’re going to take what you can get,” Danny says quietly. “Your dad’s not stupid. He knows you’re an asshole and he knows this isn’t going to be easy. But you’ll learn something before you graduate and it’ll help when you need to interview in the future.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Danny.” Because Jackson can always trust Danny to be brutal, even when he doesn’t want to hear it. Which is most of the time.

“Any time.” Danny steals another fry, smirking when Jackson glares. “And send me pictures of you in your cute little apron or coffee shop hat. I want to see it.”

“Laugh it up now, and you’ll be working IT for me when I’m a lawyer,” Jackson snarks.

Danny doesn’t argue the point, even though Jackson knows it’s more likely that by then, Danny’s going to either be in jail for hacking, or retired to Hawaii after making it big with some obscure technical startup. 

#

Jackson drops off applications at three coffee shops on campus, as well as two nearby and within easy walking distance, then puts in his information at the closest diner, two small restaurants, and a greasy spoon lunch place that he thinks serves Italian food. They all say the same thing, that they’ve already hired everyone they need for the semester, but they’ll keep him on file.

None of them look like the kind of place that would have an actual _file_.

It only leaves one option, which is _not_ where Jackson wants to be.

He goes into the library slowly, as if the books might come out and grab him. This is Lydia’s home turf, or where geeks like Stilinski hang out. This is not Whittemore territory, and if he didn’t need a job, he wouldn’t be here. He makes his way to the information desk, then gets pointed to circulation with a kind smile.

He pastes on his most charming smile as he approaches the desk. “Hi, I’m here to apply—”

“Fill this out.” The application is slapped against the wood in front of him, a pen following it, and the man behind the desk immediately turns away to talk to someone else. Jackson just stands there—he has never met anyone that _rude_.

The man finishes with the customer—some pimply faced kid who needed the Psychology section—and glances back at Jackson. “You need a job. I need an application and a copy of your schedule so we can see if we can fit some hours in for you. So fill it out.”

It’s already sounding better than the other places, library or not, so Jackson starts writing quickly. He slides it across the desk, saying, “Thanks…” He lets the phrase hang, waiting for a response.

“Derek.” When Derek takes the application, he points to a nearby terminal. “Bring up your schedule there. We can print it out, and I’ll see if we’ve got any slots available. It’s not fantastic pay, but at least it’s walking distance from your dorm and if it’s not busy, feel free to do your homework.”

Jackson doesn’t move. “Derek?”

“What?” It’s the same eyebrows set into a similar face, only now there are angles instead of the softness of a teenager. And Jackson remembers those eyes, the color of a forest. Despite the scruff and other changes wrought by seven years passing, Jackson’s sure it’s the same guy.

And he’s just as sure that Derek doesn’t remember him at all.

“Are you going to pull your schedule up or not?” Derek asks, a hint of irritation coloring his tone. “I do have work.”

Jackson fumbles with the keyboard on the first try, forgetting his password to the student website, but once he’s got his schedule printed, they go through it and find a solid eight hours that he can work during the week, and Jackson notes it down. It’s definitely not how he’d hoped to be spending Friday nights during his freshman year, but the library is only open until eleven, and he can hit the parties after that. Besides, Derek says it’s always quiet then, and he should be able to get homework done.

“I always wanted the Friday shift when I was a student,” Derek says as he updates his schedule of students. “It’s been harder to get students to take it since I graduated and started working full time. Even my own sister refuses.”

“You have a sister in school now?” Jackson remembers what he said about visiting an older sister, and he wonders if they all attended the same college.

“Whittemore,” Derek muses, not answering the question as he looks at Jackson’s schedule instead. “Any relation to the criminal lawyer in Beacon Hills?”

“Yeah.” Because great, his family’s reputation precedes him, even here. “He’s my father.”

Derek’s look is critical, sweeping over Jackson. “You don’t look like him.”

“Adopted.” It’s become easier and easier to say in the last seven years, although every time he does so, he remembers that night in the bus station before he made his way home again. “Why? Are you a secret criminal?”

The flash of a not-smile is thin-lipped and dark before Derek turns away. “No. He defended the woman who tried to burn down my family’s house, and he made sure she went free. It’s not the kind of thing I’m going to forget.” Derek pulls a piece of paper off the printer, pushes it to Jackson. “You start tomorrow. Make sure to stop by Dickinson Hall and get your paperwork filed so we can pay you, and don’t forget to sign in and out on the computer for each shift. Maggie will be on tomorrow morning to train you.”

“Will I be working with you?” The words slip out and Jackson doesn’t know how to read the look Derek gives him, before he nods, once.

“I work Tuesday through Saturday, nights. So you’ll be on with me for your Friday and Saturday shifts.”

Jackson smiles at that, oddly glad to get to give back somehow to someone who essentially saved his life once. “I’ll see you Friday, then,” he says, and even though Derek doesn’t answer, Jackson’s still looking forward to it.

#

Fridays are quiet times. Derek sends Jackson out into the stacks to put books away or search for things that students have either failed to find or are too lazy to look for themselves. There’s a sense of peace out there, the place so quiet that it feels like Jackson can hear every whisper of movement on the floor. He learns to love shelf reading, just staring at the books and making sure everything is neat and in order. When he tells Lydia about it, she says that it’s like meditation, and his brain needs something to help him find center.

This isn’t the sort of thing he ever expected, but it works for him.

Saturdays develop into a routine that starts with figuring out Derek’s preferred coffee order and bringing it with him when he shows up for his shift. The first time Derek just looks at it, doesn’t touch it, but after a few months he grunts when the coffee arrives and drinks it slowly.

They don’t talk, but that’s okay. Jackson gets the feeling that Derek doesn’t talk much, and he wonders what changed from the earnest guy he remembers who took care of a kid in a bus station.

When the semester changes, Jackson keeps his Friday and Saturday shifts, and Derek only glances at him when he comes in and they settle into the routine of the night.

“Don’t you ever go out?” Derek asks, and Jackson shrugs one shoulder in response, which doesn’t seem to satisfy his boss. “Or are you that desperate for money?”

“I’m not desperate. If I was desperate, would I buy you a six dollar coffee every Saturday?” Jackson gestures at the empty cup that is on the counter, Derek’s name scrawled by the barista of the day. “If I want spending money, I’m here. I get my work done, I go out when I’m done with my shift. It’s not like anything happens before eleven anyway.”

Derek makes a noise as an answer and Jackson can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a good or a bad response.

“Why?” Jackson pokes at him with the pen in his hand. “What does it matter to you if I’m getting drunk like a proper freshman?”

“It doesn’t.” Derek pushes back from the desk, chair rolling across the wooden floor. “I’m going to do some searches. Hold down the fort here.”

Because that’s what Derek does instead of talking; he runs away. Jackson sees the irony in this all too clearly.

#

Derek has five siblings, and over the course of his first two years in the school, Jackson meets all of them.

Laura is the oldest and must be who Derek was visiting all those years ago. She has a bright, sharp smile and a biting wit and Jackson spends time on the phone with her before he ever sees her in person. She works back in Beacon Hills as an accountant, and promises that it is _never_ as dull as people say it is. She comes in sometimes on Saturdays to visit with Derek and bring him lunch and steal him away while Jackson covers the desk. It happens more often the longer he’s there, and Cora says that’s because Derek actually trusts him with the library, unlike most of the other students.

Cora is the youngest Hale, a year older than Jackson and the only one who works at the library. She’s brash and fun and Jackson makes friends with her quickly. They set up weekly racquetball dates and take turns wiping the court with each other. When she drinks, she can outlast Jackson and becomes an old hand at getting him home safely when he’s had too much. He acts as her wingman in the bars, fending off the men and luring in pretty girls for her to flirt with.

The other three fall between Derek and Cora and Jackson doesn’t see them as often, but they do show up on occasion. Erin and Daron are twins, both in graduate school three hours away. Sophie is in medical school, interning at Beacon Hill Memorial. 

Jackson wonders aloud sometimes what it’s like to be part of such a big family, and it isn’t until the start of his junior year that Derek finally answers.

“I almost lost them all except Laura,” he says quietly. His head is bowed over the books that he is checking in, methodically pulling them from the bin and scanning them until they beep, then setting them aside to be shelved. “I came out here to visit Laura—checking the place out because I’d already applied, and I had a meeting about a scholarship. There was a woman I’d been seeing back home, and it turned out that she’d also been jilted by my uncle Peter at one point, and she had a real crazy vendetta against my family. So she tried to burn our place down.”

“And my dad kept her out of prison.” It was two years ago, but Jackson remembers that part of the conversation even if Derek gives him a startled look for saying it.

“Yeah. He did.” Derek laughs dryly. “Are you going to be a lawyer like your father?”

The answer is yes, of course. Jackson’s always been on this track, always planned on going into law. He’s taking all the right classes, preparing himself for the right exams. He knows which law school he will probably attend, and his father assumes he will become a part of his firm.

There are days when Jackson isn’t sure, so this time he just shrugs instead of answering. “So you were what, eighteen when that happened?” he says instead. “I must’ve been something like eleven.” Because he suspects that was the day Jackson ran away, when Derek was here instead of home, when they didn’t die in the fire.

“Probably something like that,” Derek muses. “Cora was twelve.”

Jackson waits, wondering if Derek even remembers what he did that day or if the fire overshadowed everything else. He wonders if Derek realizes that he saved a child’s life and future then, that if it hadn’t happened, Jackson wouldn’t be here right now.

But Derek doesn’t seem to know, and the years go on and they are friends only in the here and now, without the past to weigh them down.

#

“Come out with me.” Jackson has signed off on his last shift and he no longer works for the library. As of three days from now, he will be a college graduate, moving on to the law school in the fall and starting down his path to adulthood. He touches Derek’s hand and takes the risk of curling his fingers around Derek’s wrist. “Come out with me. Please.”

“Students and employers—”

“I’m not a student anymore.” Jackson spreads his hands. “And I’ve managed to earn enough this semester with all the extra hours that _someone_ seemed happy to give to me that I can afford to take a friend out for drinks and dinner.” He hesitates, because maybe he’s read this wrong, but after _four years_ of being together almost every Friday and Saturday night he thought he’d figured it out.

Not to mention that Cora hit him when she visited last and told him to just go for it already. Like he’s _obvious_ or something.

“Unless we’re not friends,” Jackson says when the silence stretches out. “Because if that’s what it is, then I’ll just head out and go on with my life. I’ll give your sister a call; she’s always good for a long drinking session.”

“No,” Derek growls softly, and Jackson stops, uncertain.

“No… what?”

Derek reaches out, grabs the leather jacket that’s over the back of the chair and shrugs into it. “We’ll go out, but I’m buying. A graduation gift.”

Jackson knocks his shoulder into him as they walk out. “I can handle that. Be prepared, drinking with Cora has helped me get my resistance to alcohol up.” 

He doesn’t know how to go past that, how to move beyond friends, even though he desperately wants to. He wants to broach the subject, to let Derek know that he already _knows_ that Derek’s bi. That he’s paid attention over the years, and he gets that Derek’s been hurt, badly, by previous relationships. And while Jackson’s an asshole, he’s not that kind of asshole.

The words keep eluding him as they drink and talk and Jackson confesses that he’s told his dad that he’s not going into criminal law. He’s sticking to family law, helping kids find homes and helping women escape unsafe relationships. He’s putting his money away, every bit that he can, so eventually he can work for lower rates, open a clinic for desperate people who have no money to pay for a lawyer. It’s ambitious, but it will work out, eventually, and he loves the way his story makes Derek smile proudly.

At the end of the night, Derek walks him to the door of his building and pushes him back against the wall, kissing him senseless under the dim, buzzing light on the porch. Jackson reaches back, raps on the door, and when his roommate opens it, Jackson drags Derek inside and up to his room.

They don’t emerge again until morning, even when his roommate knocks on the wall, yelling _keep it down, asshole_. Jackson only grins and focuses his effort on making Derek howl his pleasure all over again.

#

After the graduation ceremony, Derek and Cora join the Whittemores for a celebration lunch. Cora smirks knowingly while Derek and Jackson hold hands under the table. The conversation is all quiet and polite, simply passing the time in the ways that strangers speak sometimes to get to know each other better.

Cora nudges Jackson when the dessert is brought out. “So, since we’re celebrating you being done, what brought you to this school in the first place?”

It’s funny, because no one at the table actually knows the full story. He never explained it to his parents, and he’s certainly never told Derek. So Jackson sets his fork down and nudges his chocolate cake out of the way before he speaks. “Well, when I was eleven years old, I found out I was adopted, and I was completely butthurt about it, like privileged assholes get. So I stole some money from my dad and I ran away from Beacon Hills. But I only made it as far as this town before my money ran out. By the time I made it to the bus station, I was hungry, broke, terrified, and crying. And if it wasn’t for this kid that got off the bus on his way to the college here who was kind enough to take care of me, I probably never would have made it back home.”

He looks at Derek while he speaks, sees the moment when Derek figures it out, the slow smile and widening eyes. Jackson nods once. “So, fate brought me here. Which turns out to be a good thing, because I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”

Under the table, Derek squeezes his hand, holding on tight, and Jackson knows enough of how his mind works by now to take that as the declaration that it is.

He’ll say the words later, whisper them into Derek’s skin when they’re alone, show him how happy he is that fate led them here together.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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